


everyone has it but no one can lose it (what is it?)

by rainingonyou



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ? - Freeform, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Foster Care, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Self-Worth Issues, Special Abilities, no beta cause i fear criticism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainingonyou/pseuds/rainingonyou
Summary: At age 7 he’d watched them drive away, arm outstretched, leaving him only with bruised ribs and a wrinkled note.He still has it, another seven years later, smooth because of how many times he’s poured over it, examining it and folding it, unfolding it, trying to find something—No matter how many times he looks, it’s still just a piece of paper. Even still, he thinks he would die if he lost it, it being the only thread he has connected to his parents.(is it his fault?)_____like all those other adoption fics except not really (with a twist)
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson, TommyInnit & Technoblade, Tommyinnit & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, more soon mayhaps
Comments: 12
Kudos: 217





	everyone has it but no one can lose it (what is it?)

**Author's Note:**

> speedrunned this shit 
> 
> dedicated to absolutely fucking NO ONE cause I don’t need anyone amen. on with the story !
> 
> (drink water!!)

Sometimes it crushes him.

The overwhelming fear that nobody will ever love him, that he’ll always be destined to be just another kid, forever surfing foster homes, each time rejected with just another thing he’s heard countless times before.

The fear nestles between his bones, suffocating and oh so persistent. It leaves him gasping for breath at 3 am, vision blurry and thick with tears, and it makes him want to beg his parents, ask them what he did wrong, that he was just a kid, can’t he get a second chance?

He knows he’s nothing special. He’s known that since the day his parents decided he was more trouble than he was worth and dropped him off at the side of MayBridges police station. At age 7 he’d watched them drive away, arm outstretched, leaving him only with bruised ribs and a wrinkled note that just said, _good luck thomas_.

He still has it, another seven years later, smooth because of how many times he’s poured over it, examining it and folding it, unfolding it, trying to find _something—_

No matter how many times he looks, it’s still just a piece of paper. Even still, he thinks he would die if he lost it, it being the only thread he has connected to his parents.

(is it his fault?)

**  
____________________**

“One father and two sons. Adopted, actually.” His social worker says, “I’ll probably see you at the end of the week, huh? A new record perhaps?”

Tommy slants his eyes towards the window, gritting his teeth. Sprawling hills, he notes bitterly. He knows he’ll never fit in here. 

The former laughs, shaking his head, “Oh, come on now, Tommy. We always have so much _fun_ , don’t we?” He smoothly turns the steering wheel with one hand and rolls the car into the driveway, “Don’t look so gloomy, the minute they look at you they’ll want to send you back. Smile!”

“Fuck you, Dream,” Tommy bites out, fingers clenched into a fist. He sees the front door to the house open out of the corner of his eye, a blonde head of hair poking through the doorway before he feels nails digging into his skin. He drags his gaze to Dream, already knowing what’s coming.

Dreams eyes are cold now, devoid of any humor. “Behave. I’ll be coming to collect you soon, Tommy.”

There’s a rap of knuckles on the roof of the car and then his door is pulled open.

“Hello,” a cheery voice says. “Tommy, are you ready? Got your things and whatnot?”

He twists around and is met with a tired but alert looking man. The man looks kind enough, he supposes, and stretches up, spine popping, before clambering out of the car.

“I’m Phil,” the man, _Phil,_ reaches into the back and hauls out a small suitcase that carries all of Tommy’s belongings, “this yours, mate? It’s a bit light, we’ll have to go shopping, ay?”

“Phil,” Dream looks out of place, uncomfortable, and Tommy can’t help but snort at that, raising his hands in a placating gesture when a dark glare’s shot his way, “I don’t-“

“Mr. Watson to you, thanks.”

Dream closes his mouth then starts over, slowly pulling himself together, “ _Mr. Watson_ , maybe we could slow down, look over the files? We have plenty of time, after all.”

Phil smiles at him, sickly sweet, “I already saw them, so there’s no need for that. I think we’ll be off, then, if that’s all. Cheers, mate.” 

Tommy feels gentle fingers loosely circle his wrist as he’s led away from the van. He looks back to see Dream staring at something in front of him, and then on the way into the house he passes a tall, youngish looking guy, with a pink braid slung over his shoulder, glaring at the van.

He didn’t get to have a good look at the house before he came in, but inside he realizes just how _big_ it is. It doesn’t look too fancy, but instead has a warm, comforting feel to it. There’s an archway and a spiraling staircase leading up, a chandelier that glitters when the sun comes in through a large window on top, and an acoustic guitar leaning against the small table in the middle. It’s a little messy, random socks, books, and papers scattered around. As he’s led deeper, he sees about three doors before he’s led into a living room.The first thing he notices is a practically untouched record player and his eyes widen in surprise. The giddy feeling in his chest gets squashed down hastily before it can even start to rise. Still, as he watches it from the corner of his eye, something like longing bubbles up inside of him.

He hears two sets of footprints trailing behind him, one loud and the other light. He already knows there’s a shadow on the couch and averts his eyes, plopping down on the armchair.

“Sorry about that. Techno knows how bad Dream can be, he had him for a bit before he came to live here,” Phil offers, smiling at him, eyes crinkling, only faltering slightly when Tommy just looks at him with cool indifference. 

“Nice, nice. So, what are the rules around here, big man? Anything off limits or some shit like that?” The pink haired guy from earlier, who which he assumes is Techno, sits down on the couch, spine straight. Tommy raises an eyebrow at that, then shifts his gaze when he sees another guy with slightly wavy hair and a blue beanie, who’s tall as _shit,_ sprawl on the floor. 

Nobody seems fazed, and Phil continues on brightly, “Not really, no. Curfews at 12 am and we normally have dinner with a movie every Wednesday, but other than that, anything’s fair game.” 

He snaps his gaze back to Phil, wondering if this was just a trick to lull him into a false sense of security. It probably was, he decided.

Phil gestures toward Techno and the other freakishly tall guy, “That’s Techno, he’s 16 and the other’s Wilbur, 15. Their rooms are next to yours so if you need _anything_ , just go to them and I’m sure they’ll be glad to help out.” The adult’s phone starts ringing right then and he glances down, grimacing, “Can you guys show Tommy where his room is, please? I need to take this.”

With that, Phil strolls out of the room.

The other two share a look.

**  
____________________**

“Dream’s a fucking bitch, huh.”

Tommy barks out a laugh, the comment seemingly coming out of nowhere from Wilbur as they climbed the stairs, “A bit, yep. He can be nice sometimes, though.”

“No, pretty sure he’s just a bitch,” Techno drawls out, his voice surprising Tommy.

The other brother snorts, nodding along. Tommy stays silent. Fuck. All of this was going too fast and he’d almost let his guard down. He dug his nails into his palm. _Stop it_.

Just then, a shadow passes straight through him in the hallway and he shivers, cursing under his breath. His new brothers shoot him curious glances and Wilbur looks away while Techno‘s lingers. 

Just then, they stop at a door that’s the farthest from the stairs. 

Wilbur pushes the door open, ushering him inside, “This is where you’ll be staying, Toms. Welcome home.” He shoves the small suitcase that Tommy hadn’t seen until then into the latter’s hands.

Tommy scowls, walking inside, “My name's Tommy, dipshit, I’m not a fucking kindergartener.” The room’s medium sized, not too large nor too big. Inside, there was a bed pushed against a wall, a desk with a chair, a walk in closet, and a dresser. He gently drops his suitcase onto the maroon bed sheets and settles in, bed dipping slightly. The material’s soft, and he marvels at it, fingers skimming along the edge. It reminds him of the clouds he saw when he was being driven to the station, plump and hanging in the sky, and he had wondered if maybe he jumped really high, he could grab a handful of it, rub it across his skin. Maybe it would’ve washed away all the nights he’d laid in bed, music loud in his ears, pulsing, air heavy and thick with something he couldn’t quite place. Reality is often disappointing, he’s learned though.

Wilbur tsks, “Sure, Toms. We’ll leave you to unpack. Come down when you're hungry, alright?” 

The blond nods, distracted, and after a few seconds he hears the door click shut behind him.

He slides the zipper open once he’s sure they’ve left completely, then carefully pulls out a disk with tissue paper wrapped around it. The tissue paper’s dirty and torn with use, but inside the disk looked brand new, if not for the few scratches on the edges. After throwing his suitcase into the closet, (because he wasn’t _stupid_ , he was probably going to leave the next day) he curls into a ball on his bed, hugging the disk to his chest.

His ribs ache from the little fiesta he had yesterday when his last house wanted a memorable goodbye and winces, stifling a whimper.

Everything ached and he was so, so tired.

Life isn’t fair, he’s known that for a long time. He remembers the first few houses he went to, each home that came wondering if that one would be his final one. The first few homes were nice, actually, until the system said fuck it and stopped trying. Everyone had just collectively given up on him at that point. A piece of his soul chipped away for every house that turned him away, every kick and punch from either the guardian or the children living there, every day he’d gone without food or water. Every time he was told he was too loud, too annoying, just too fucking _much._

It doesn’t hurt him as much anymore. ( _liar_ )

He tenses his muscles then lets loose, sighing and melting into the bed.

_Go to sleep,_ a voice whispers, and a claw runs down his cheek.

“Go _away_ ,” he murmurs, without heat.

He closes his eyes and drifts off, claws scratching his scalp gently.

Before he sleeps, he feels himself being guided gently under the blankets, and he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> ok ok, there wasn’t much Tommy in this, but he’s gonna be in this more. also WHY AM I NEVER HAPPY WITH THAT I WRITE. leave me prompts at my [tumblr](https://steponmefather.tumblr.com/) (I rushed this so, sorry if it sucks. remember to drink water!!)


End file.
